let the rain wash our sorrows away
by queen-sheep
Summary: A story of two people and a small, wondrous, growing garden.


Written for the QLFC S3 - Round 3

* * *

_December 15, 1939_

Hermione pressed a finger onto the small window, carefully wiping away a small smudge mark right near the bottom. The outside chill reached even where she was standing, and she shivered in her thin shirt and ragged coat. It was going to be another rough winter, she knew. Outside, the clouds rolled ominously over the city, dark and dreary, and rain started to fall, soft at first, but then louder and louder until she could barely hear anything else.

From behind her, the door slammed open, and a soaked Ron hurried in.

"'Mione," he greeted, pushing his bangs back from his face. They were getting long, she noted. "Whatcha looking at?"

Hermione shook off her melancholy mood and smiled at him. "Nothing much. How was the lineup today?"

Ron grimaced and shook his head. From his pocket he took out their ration tickets. "I managed to grab them, but the line's getting longer. Winter and all."

Hermione's brief smile flitted from her face, disappearing as if it was never there.

"I see," she said, and that was that.

Ron didn't take off his coat. He stamped his feet a couple times by the entryway and then slumped down onto their couch. Hermione joined him, leaning against his warmth. Peering up at him, she could see the effect of these past few years. His eyes had grown dim. Deep lines etched down his face, and his voice, quiet and mellow, was a stark contrast to the rough, boyish tones of his teen years.

He had been so happy back then.

She still remembered that first ridiculous, wonderful glimpse of him, even now, five years later. She remembered the heat, most of all; she reckoned it must've been the hottest day of the year. Hermione had been walking along the grime-filled streets on her way back from the library, books slung in a bag over her arm and absently muttering formulas under her breath when she noticed him staring with wide-eyed wonder at, of all things, a lamp post.

He must've sensed her watching him, because he suddenly turned round to grin at her, eyes glinting excitedly as he said, "Hello!" in a clear country accent.

That explained the awe, at least.

"Hi," Hermione said cautiously.

"D'you know where city hall is?" he asked. "Need 'ta get there today."

"Over that way," she said politely, pointing. "It's right by the library. You can't miss it."

"A library? Never understood what you need all those books for."

Before Hermione could do anything more than make an affronted face, he was off. Without even a 'thanks', she thought huffily.

"—Earth to Hermione?" Ron's voice startled her out of her reverie. He raised an eyebrow at her. "We in a thinking mood today?"

She smiled at that. "Just a bit. I was remembering how we first met."

"Don't you think the second time was more interesting? I distinctly remembered some small girl yelling at me about the importance of manners and libraries while I was trying to grab a bite." He dramatically placed the back of his hand on his forehead. "Oh, I was traumatized. To think, that was the kind of reception I'd get right after moving into the city."

Hermione snorted at that, and he grinned back at her.

Later, as she laid curled in bed next to him, she traced the contours of his face again. The same deep lines. The same dark bags. The thinness. This artificial city had choked all of his light away.

She wished she could do something, _anything, _to bring some of it back.

And then, she had an idea.

...

Hermione rushed through the crowded streets of London, maneuvering them easily. She had lived here her whole life — it was as easy as breathing for her. She didn't stop until she got to the small house on the outskirts of town, away from their small abode in the centre of the city. It was far, but this was the only place she could get them. The closer to the heart of the city they were, the more people bartered hard for their meager possessions.

There was a lady sitting on the front porch, and she eyed Hermione suspiciously.

"What do you want?"

"I want," she said firmly, "seeds. Flower seeds, grass seeds, tomato seeds. Whatever you have."

The lady shook her head. "Times are hard, little Miss. You'll have to be more convincing than that."

"I have education—"

"Not worth a damn nowadays."

"... I have money."

The lady considered Hermione in all her entirety. Her long, ratty coat, her dirty white sneakers, her bushy hair. Hermione fingered the small bag of money anxiously in her pocket with her chin held high.

"Better," the lady finally said. Hermione breathed a quiet sigh of relief. She turned inside abruptly for the house and Hermione hurried after, not wanting to be left behind.

The lady stopped suddenly, and Hermione braked before she crashed into her back. The lady turned and said shortly, "Wait here."

The living room was simple and plain, like theirs. Hermione tentatively sat on one of the worn armchairs and tried not to peer around too much.

Before long, the lady was back. In her hands were three small plastic packets, each with a couple of black circles inside. The seeds, she realized excitedly.

"You can pick one out of these," the lady said. "These ones are tomato. These ones are petunias, and these are some other sort of flower."

Hermione immediately went for the first one. The greenery would be good for Ron, but the food it produced would be better for the both of them.

"As for the money," the lady said. "I want the entire bag I can see from your pocket."

Hermione started. "The entire—?"

She stopped when she saw the hard look in the other lady's eyes. Something passed between them then, and Hermione nodded.

"My name's Andromeda, by the way," she said, later, as she showed Hermione out.

"Andromeda," Hermione repeated. "I'm Hermione."

Andromeda nodded. There were no 'good luck's' or 'I wish you the best'. Hermione thought they might've been good friends, in any other circumstance. Instead, she tucked the packet safely into her inner coat pocket and headed back home.

As she walked, her anxiety increased. It was already dark out. Ron would probably be home already, wondering where she was. She sped up her pace.

The light was shining through the window when she arrived. She slipped inside.

"You're home pretty late," he said. "Did something come up?"

"The professor was a bit... late. He kept us in longer and I took the scenic route back." The lie slipped off her tongue easily.

The garden was going to be a surprise. She'd show it to him later, when it was blooming and beautiful outside, but not now.

Ron watched her. She knew he knew there was something she wasn't telling him, but he didn't press, and for that, she was glad.

For now, there wasn't much to do with the seeds, but once winter ended and spring began, she could start on it for sure.

And then slowly, steadily, spring really did come. The streets thawed, the weather had less bite in it, and green was starting to peek up again. Hermione tackled her new (or not so new anymore) project with renewed enthusiasm, and it was alright. She had found a little plot of unused land in an alley not too far from where they lived, and the plants were starting to ripen.

At first.

Ron didn't say anything about her extended hours and her late arrivals home, and how she seemed to come home every day a little more tired and a little more dirty. She was happier, too.

But then days turned to weeks, and weeks turned to months, and still, she kept quiet. She could tell he was getting restless from the fact, but she couldn't just tell him. The garden was almost ready, but not yet. Not yet.

"You're keeping something from me," he said one day during breakfast. He watched her over the table. Hermione carefully shrugged a shoulder.

"It's not a big deal. You don't need to worry about it," she said.

His mouth tightened into a straight line. She could see his ears slowly turning red, the colour creeping on his face.

"Hermione, of course I'm worried!" he said, voice strained. "What if you're off, off flouncing with somebody? What am I supposed to think?"

Hermione heart dropped right into her stomach. She felt like ice cold water had just been dumped over her head. How could he think that she...?

Then, the anger rushed in.

"How dare you," Hermione said in tight, tremulous voice. "How could you even think that I—"

"Well, what else am I supposed to think?" he snarled, half raised from his seat. Their breakfast laid between them, forgotten.

"I'd expect you to have a little more faith in me!" Hermione yelled, pushing her chair back with a screech.

"I'm trying!"

"Well, you're not trying hard enough!"

"Someone like you wouldn't understand," he snapped angrily, and she tensed up.

"What do you even mean by that?" she demanded.

Ron scowled, pushing himself to his feet, and brushing past her. "Forget it," he called behind his back.

"Fine!" she said, frustrated. "Just walk away, then!"

"Fine!" he yelled back. The door slammed shut with a resounding slam, and it had an odd note of finality to it.

Hermione let out a frustrated screech, forcefully her plate into the sink. She grabbed her book bag from upstairs, fully intending on going to class and forgetting everything that had just happened.

It was harder than it sounded. Her mind kept replaying that sound back at her. The door slamming. Their angry voices, shouting at each other. It had been a while since they last had a fight like this.

When she came back that night, all her anger was gone. She'd tell him about the garden, and that would clear everything up. Everything would be alright again and they'd go on living the way they had been.

Only, he didn't come back that night. Hermione worried her lip between her teeth, trying not to let it get to her.

It was fine, she told herself firmly. He was probably bunking at Harry's tonight. She made dinner for one and ate it by herself at the table.

The silence of the house echoed loudly around her.

...

One day, things changed.

She had just been walking home from the university when a loud _boom _came from behind her. Hermione whirled around in surprise, watching in muted horror as a large smoke cloud burst up. The screaming started.

The previously busy street burst into chaos. People started running home to their houses, off the street, anywhere that wasn't here. A hand grabbed her wrist and she was jerked along the crowd and to a house and down into a "bunker".

There they crouched, in the overwhelming darkness, for hours.

When it was over, she stumbled outside as if in a dream. In that few couple hours, the world had transformed around her. It had turned into a nightmare.

Hermione numbly walked the now unfamiliar streets to her home. As she passed the entrance to her garden, the blood froze abruptly in her veins. Her heart pounded frantically as her eyes darted across the place.

"No..." she whispered to herself.

The alley was gone. The buildings on both sides of it had been bombed. All that was left of the garden was sharp shards of rubble and concrete littering the ground. She crouched down and pushed aside a large slab on rock, staring with dull eyes at the broken stalks.

...

"Hermione?"

"Mom…? What are you doing here?"

"It's dangerous in London. Please, come back with me."

"…Alright."

…

_March 15, 1946_

Hermione walked through the city, scarf wrapped snuggly around her head. The city she remembered was the same, but so, so different. But it was spring and she was back and that was all that mattered.

She returned to their house. It was empty and vacant, and definitely needed some work to be liveable again, but she didn't mind. Next, she returned her garden.

It was exactly the same as she left it. The rubble was still scattered around the forlorn place; nobody had bothered cleaning up this small part of the city. She rolled up her sleeves and heaved the biggest chunks off to the side. From her coat, she took out a small, plastic package.

They were tomato seeds – new ones. Hermione would start over, and maybe it would work out this time.

She sat on a piece of cement on the ground, watching the ripe plants two months later. It was spring, closer to summer; the tomato plants were beginning to poke up from the soil now. Finally, the thing she had set out to do so many years ago was bearing fruit.

And the one she had done it for wasn't even here.

She allowed herself to smile bitterly for only a moment, before forcefully cheering herself up. The library was reopening (granted, with far less books than before), the sun was shining, and it was going to be a good day.

Just as she stood up and brushed the dirt from the back of her skirt, she heard an astonished, "'Mione?"

All the blood in her veins froze in that instant. Hermione turned slowly, fingers trembling imperceptibly, to the mouth of the alleyway. There, silhouetted by the bright sky, was Ron, looking worse for wear, but alive.

"Ron," she said, voice strangled. He walked slowly over to her as if in a trance, and then looked down at the garden.

"What—" he began.

"It's a garden. Only has tomatoes for now but we'll get better things like flowers and nice grasses and all that you know. This was for you it was the secret I was keeping I'm so sorry—"

Her frantic rambling was cut off as he scooped her into a hug with a disbelieving laugh.

"Bloody hell, who cares about the garden now? I'm so, so, glad you're alive." His voice lowered into a desperate whisper at the end, and Hermione found herself blinking back tears.

"I care about the garden," she managed around the lump in her throat. "It took care of it."

"Well, it's my turn now, yeah? It can be our little secret garden now." Ron leaned back slightly to grin down at her.

"Yeah," she said. "That sounds good. Perfect, in fact."


End file.
